morning
by pupate
Summary: from that single springing strand of hair always out of place on his head to the way he always taps his foot when he is trying to focus on something, feliciano is beautiful, and it is indisputable.


**note: **please refrain from commenting on the lack of capitalization it is a stylistic choice thank-you

_morning_

from that single springing strand of hair always out of place on his head to the way he always taps his foot when he is trying to focus on something, feliciano is beautiful, and it is indisputable.

feliciano is beautiful in the morning, naked, wrapped in ludwig's arms and floral blankets. most of the time ludwig will wake up first, and even if feliciano wakes up first once in a blue moon, he is always tugging at ludwig's arm immediately, or kissing, or tickling; and when ludwig's eyes blink open sleepily with some groggy german spilling from his mouth, feliciano will hop out of bed naked as the day he was born and say, "i'll make breakfast!"

however, ludwig is often the one to wake up first, and ludwig doesn't share feliciano's boldness or easy affection or smooth grace in kissing somebody sleeping, or kissing them at any time besides after they have kissed him. feliciano always kisses first, and it is because of ludwig's constant politeness expressed in quiet, hesitant, only slightly blushing, "i would like to kiss, if that's alright"s, that feliciano will always answer with a smile and a kiss, no words, sometimes laughter.

today is one of those days where ludwig is caught in the idea of feliciano first thing in the morning.

the blankets are just barely draped over the boy's hips and the sun drops steadily from the windows and through the lace curtains, dotting his eyelids. even his fingers, clutching at the bedsheets slightly, have that effortless grace and fluidity of motion clinging to them. ludwig thinks about an art exhibit feliciano took him to, once, about some kind of eighteenth century art.

ludwig breathes quietly, inhales, exhales. he attempts to recall the exact name but can only come up with preraphaelite? renaissance? impressionist? he has never been good with art, or its constant shifting and changing of eras. he looks at feliciano, stretched out like a cat, laying beside him, but covered in and giving off light. the era's name is rococo and it kind of sounds like feliciano, like something you would find on a tin full of sweets in bright wrappers that make a crinkling noise when you open them - feliciano sounds like rococo, all the time but especially now, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, almost awake from the sun that continues to fall on him, his sleepy hair, the way the floral sheets cling to him, and even the simple curve of his fingers against the bed.

he remembers a painting that he had thought very charming, in its thick forest setting, the way the painter had made the thick leaves upon the trees look like nothing more than wisps of cloud, the brightness of a girl on a swing, a man fading from her happiness and her beauty into the background, tiny cherubs hovering. he remembers the way feliciano had been in his element that day, had spoken with authority and articulation, had known more than ludwig; "it's very beautiful, isn't it? rococo seems very kitsch and simple at first, but this painting actually has a lot of sexual undertones - see, look at that man looking up her dress under the plants, here!" and then feliciano had attempted to wink at ludwig but had just blinked, very hard, and then after they left, ludwig had said, "i would like to kiss, if that's alright," and feliciano had kissed him right on the steps of the museum, filling ludwig's insides with peaceful idylls of wispy trees and giggling cupids and a bright, bright girl on a swing, and maybe sexual undertones hiding beneath the shrubbery.

at the time, ludwig had thought little of it; and then when he did think of it, he thought it a gross perversion of any type of art, to simply throw in sexuality like that where it wasn't needed - a corruption, dirty hands staining a white linen.

but now he looked at feliciano and he looked and he looked and he thought about rococo and he thought about the bright sunshine girl on a swing and he thought about how the cherubs had not even looked angry, angels encouraging love in any way, because it was love - and love was beautiful in all its forms, whether it was staring at a man hidden in the plants, because the man pushing the swing and the man looking up the bright girl's skirt could be one in the same, couldn't he? the gentleman pushing her on the swing, the man looking up her skirt, meeting her gaze, smiling, her smiling; there was no difference between the ludwig who held feliciano when he was frightened to the ludwig who had sex with him, or wanted to kiss him. there was only this, only ever this.

and feliciano is the girl on the swing, shining, illuminating, or he is the entire painting - something, he is something. he was painted in the eighteenth century and he was painted preraphaelite and he was painted during the renaissance and he was painted impressionist - he is always, always the subject and muse of every piece of art, even those too-strange and impossible to fathom modern pieces, because what makes them art - that idea that everything is art, the idea that everything is beautiful - is found in feliciano.

even as he sleeps, wrapped in a sheet, wrapped in ludwig's arms, sunlight glaring down at him.

and a moment passes and ludwig thinks, "i'm in love with him, i'm really in love with him" and then

feliciano has woken up and he is smiling like the girl on the swing, rubbing at his eyes. ludwig shifts, and then he kisses the boy next to him whose name sounds like candy and who makes him think of girls on swings in bright pink dresses and forests with leaves that look like clouds, forests like heaven. and feliciano kisses him back with no hesitation, with a fresh good-morning enthusiasm and eagerness - ludwig can feel his feet sliding up to rub at his calves, feels his arms wrap around his neck. he feels the softness of feliciano's lips pressed against him and then he feels teeth clicking against his own, and he can feel the softness of feliciano's body, too, obscured by a thin sheet, 100% cotton.

"i would like to have sex with you, if that's alright." ludwig says when they separate, blushing only slightly, blushing almost to his ears despite what he wants. he knows the words sound stiff, but feliciano's words are so soft that they make up for it. a soft murmur accompanied by those hands guiding his own to feliciano's hips, sliding off the sheet slowly.

ludwig's lips curve into a smile just as slowly. feliciano's smile, if anything, only grows.


End file.
